Month: August 2008

Confession of a habitual offender

poetry

haven’t I done this
many of times before
and yet I never learn,
never improve, instead
choosing to go down
the same old road,
over and over and over again
making a statement
in my selfishness and
watching the pain wash
over her contorting face
struggling to conquer the tears
and remain strong so as
not to be hurt anymore,
never again;
and so I harden a heart
by withholding my own.

god bless

poetry

you grow your legs, and it’s sink or swim
you throw your eggs at the presidents chin
you eat your grass if your one of the cattle
and bicker and babble over who won the battle
but their building a fence, blocking the sun
and the biggest of the bulls wouldn’t dare run
and the box in the room that keeps talking to you
grows bigger and bigger the more of you it consumes
every single day it’s Obama Mccain
every single day it’s Osama Hussein
every single day it continues to rain
every single day threatens to drive me insane
and back in high school when you gave up your brain
and you put on a mask so you could all look the same
now you spend your days grazing with black and white spots
regurgitating what you eat to see your cholesterol drop.

(Disclaimer: In no way am I comparing Osama Bin Laden to Barack Obama.)

the state of the state

poetry

The Skins on the corner
with their bubble postures
and the Muscles they walk with
swaying their hips
and the Muscles will flex
all their cologne and fists,
the college Punks,
the Emo’s and their skinny
jeans and cigarettes,
the one’s that fall through
the cracks in the dirt,
and the Alien’s,
watching the sun cross
behind the balet of the
clouds
twidling our thumbs.

aside from the letter eh?

poetry

aspired i (to)
acquire one (who would be)
aloof until (he was)
alive at last (and then)
altogether lost (at which point bumping into an)
acquaintance of (the former clinton)
actors who (played politicians)
accepting those (they never liked)
answered that (which)
applied to (when they had)
arrived at (the place they)
asked of (those whom)
attacked with (great zeal, but)
agreed not (to ever)
achieve the (goal which they once)
aimed for

A Single Tear is All I Shed

poetry

One tear shed for nature’s growth
and One tear shed for nature’s destruction
One tear shed for nature’s hunters
and One tear shed for nature’s hunted
One tear shed for the life of men
and One tear shed for the end of mankind
One tear shed for our abuse of nature
and One tear shed for nature’s vengeance on our race
*
One tear shed for all that is right in my life
and One tear shed for all that is wrong
One tear shed for the health of my family
and One tear shed for the sickness of us all
One tear shed for the words of God
and One tear shed for how He moves through us
One tear shed for those who were persecuted
and One tear shed for those who will never believe

inspiration – once a necessity, now a mere luxury

poetry

mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
– together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you

muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you

salvation by breakup and road trip

poetry

for a weekend out
in a borrowed car
we roll up the windows
put the cruse control at 65
and stay in the right lane

cranking the music
we prepare for the best
and drive until neither can
keep an eyelid peeled

stopping only once we’ve made it
to las vegas
new mexico
aka hell on earth

giving up on the camp ground
we settle for a inn with a smoking room
and light our pipes
and turn on the tv to snow

in the morning we make it to the sand dunes
and roll down hills to implant ourselves
face first snow angels in the side of each hill
forgetting our camera we make the trip twice

trying a camp ground again
this time we’re caught in the snow and find
our canned soups only light thanks to duralog
and our final match

turning north we return home at 5am
to refreshed heads
and clear hearts ready for the upcoming
loss which will save me

poetry

i’ve never been good at startings
and i’ve rarely been good at endings,
much preferring the middle,
oh the comfortable middle in which
thereisnobeginningandthereisnoending
thereisnostrivingandthereisnomoving
and it might start smelling from stagnation
so that i hate my position and wish for a change
but at least it will be a comfortably, horrible smell
bringing me an ironic smile in the contemplation
of its (andmyown) putrescence.

if we could only learn to focus our minds… then… perhaps… we could do anything (i love this town i swear – i think)

poetry

sweeping roofs and grey skies
dragons, tea
bad kfc
striving just a little more
to see you romantic ‘lly

acid rain,
wet tiles squirt
up the sock i’ve worn
smiling people
spicy food
brakes so loud i need no horn
striving just a little more
been a romantic e’re since
the day i done been born

humid air,
suns mistook for moons
at high noon!
striving
please
just a little more
romantic
romantic
romantic
i can bend that spoon…